


Interstitial 1 (or The Stitches in Time or the bits what happen between the other bits)

by Winklepicker



Series: Quo Fata Vocant [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Romance, Gen, M/M, Non-explicit violent imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 07:51:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7093192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winklepicker/pseuds/Winklepicker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Previously in Quo Fata Vocant:<br/>Sherlock and John meet in a hospital room in a slightly altered timeline (to TV Sherlock and John) and after some silliness on Sherlock's part, both end up at Baker Street.<br/>This is what happened after...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interstitial 1 (or The Stitches in Time or the bits what happen between the other bits)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts), [221b_hound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/gifts).



> Thanks to the fabulousness of 221b_hound and Atlin Merrick I stopped procrastinating and finished writing this little thingy as it was stopping me from finishing the next part. Ah, the writer's life for me. I can't thank these two wonderful human beings enough for encouraging and inspiring me and and so many other writers, and so I dedicate this little snippet of (not quite yet properly edited) nonsense to them.

Once, there was a doctor. And a soldier.

Not two people. Just in case you thought... I mean, I suppose it's a little ambiguous…

Let me start again.

There once was a doctor who was also a soldier. There, that's better. This doctor soldier man was named John Hamish Watson.

Doctor Watson, _Captain_ John Watson, was deployed to Afghanistan and while there was shot in the shoulder, sent home, developed a psychosomatic limp, ended up in therapy, bumped into an old university friend, and found a flat share with a detective who was quite mad and not as tall as he seemed.

This is not that story. Not exactly.

There was also once a mad detective. Sherlock Holmes, was a cautious man. This, of course, was not what most people saw. What most people saw was a decidedly not cautious man—reckless in fact. Sherlock Holmes was completely devoid of reck. Except of course when it came to matters of the mind and matters of the heart, his own to be precise. When it came to those, he was all about the reck. So much so that he managed to convince himself that his mind was a fortress and his heart did not exist. And for most of his life he had managed to protect his heart and mind from those who wished to destroy them or tried to have a bit of a fiddle. That is until the day he met John Watson.

And here they were after a day in Baker Street negotiating rental terms and eating Mrs Hudson's biscuits. She had been thrilled to show them both around. Opening up shutters. Pointing out the spare bedroom upstairs if they’d be needing it.

‘I'm sure it'll come in handy,’ John had replied.

In another story—not this one, this one's hypothetical. Or maybe the other one is… Anyway, never mind all that. In another story perhaps the boys had their first dinner together (in which Sherlock actually ate) after a particularly exciting case with adrenaline still coursing through their veins. Perhaps they had just stopped a serial killer—Sherlock narrowly avoiding death by poisonous pill, and John shooting someone for a man he had only just met and thus cementing an implicit level of trust and loyalty between them in a way a day or two in the same hospital room couldn’t do, despite being in the constant presence of each other’s naked calves.

But listen, there’s no point ruminating on what-ifs and could’ve-beens. In this story they are both relaxed and just a tad exhausted after a day of lifting boxes and carrying furniture up seventeen steps. Unpacking things, arranging things, rearranging things. Quietly judging each other’s possessions.

Now here they sat in the excellent Chinese place Sherlock had recommended. A bubbling tank of assorted shellfish near the entrance, the tang of spice and umami in the air, and an endless supply of green tea in chipped white pots.

'Go on then,' John flashed a smirk at Sherlock and slid a fortune cookie across the table. 'Impress me.’

Sherlock frowned. 'Seriously? I just deduced the head waiter's life story but this is what's going to impress you?’

‘Yeah, but you can't prove that, can you?’

'Ask him.’

John sat up in his chair and gave Sherlock a look of disbelief and a tinge of horror. 'I'm not going to ask him...' John stopped, looked around the restaurant quickly then leaned across the table whispering, 'I am not going to ask the head waiter if his new lover makes him wear a ball gag.’

‘Why not?’ Sherlock shrugged.

John burst out a short laugh, shaking his head at the madman sitting in front of him. ‘Let’s not get ourselves banned, ok? I quite like this place. Anyway, you said you could always predict them, so,’ John nodded at the fortune cookie, ‘on you go.’

Sherlock raised his chin and stared defiantly at John. He’d made the mistake before of trusting people too soon but in John’s face there was only honest warmth and curiosity and something else Sherlock couldn’t quite put his finger on. He had narrowed it down to either anger, joy, arousal or constipation.

Without taking his eyes off John, he reached out and swiped the fortune cookie. John sat back and crossed his arms, waiting. A slow smile crept across his face. Sherlock crossed constipation off the list and his eyes fluttered as he tried to parse the warm fizzing sensation currently running riot in his chest.

John seemed genuinely happy to remain in his presence even without the enforced confinement of a hospital room. He was being teased, that was certain, but in a friendly way? Friends did this apparently. There was no malice, though he'd been fooled before.

Sherlock tossed and caught the fortune cookie then held it to his forehead. As he had hoped, this made John giggle, and that made Sherlock all bubbly in the belly and just a titch fizzy in the head. 'Work better not harder, and you will prosper,’ Sherlock intoned his prediction as though he were imparting solemn life-changing knowledge.

'Nice.' John stabbed at a wonton and popped it in his mouth. 'Let's see it then.’

Sherlock crunched open the cookie and pulled out the itty bitty fortune. His face fell as he cast himself a mask of feigned outrage. 'You will become better acquainted with a coworker.’ He threw the fortune on the table.

'I'd have to get a job first,’ said John.

‘Pfff,’ Sherlock waved this away, 'what for?’

‘I'm not exactly rolling in it. Plus today I moved out of my barely affordable bedsit and into a much more expensive flat to live with a man who appears to have very little grasp on the concept of money, and who also doesn't appear to have a paying job. Come to think of it, do you get paid?’

‘That’s a rather personal question, John.’

John blinked at him and shook his head. ‘This morning you asked me about my defecation schedule so you could plan yours around it. I’m thrilled to inform you we broke through the personal questions barrier a few hours ago.’

Sherlock sighed. ‘Sometimes I get paid. Not when I work for Lestrade, obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ John repeated.

‘But I get by.’

‘Right,’ John said.

They were both distracted for a moment by a large steaming platter of duck tongues covered in a mountain of chilli being placed on a nearby table. An exclamation of delight came from the diners. Sherlock absent-mindedly reached for a wonton as he watched the people on the other table scoop duck tongues into their bowls. He slowly placed it in his mouth.

‘So, um, do you have a girlfriend?’

The wonton in Sherlock’s mouth flew across and landed unseen in the pile of duck tongues. Sherlock gave a small cough and turned immediately with wide eyes toward John. His mouth moved, trying to form words his brain hadn’t thought of yet. ‘I… I don’t… I mean… that’s not… no… I…’

In another story, John may have asked a similar question. Sherlock may have sat there watching John’s tongue slide smoothly over his lips, and come close to having a conniption right there in his pants. In that story, maybe the suddenness of John’s implied interest plus Sherlock’s terrifyingly strong emotions forced him to cooly and vehemently deny any and all interest in anything ever to do with relationships, like, ever.

In this story, however, Sherlock had enough time to simmer over these bizarre new feelings in the hospital. More time to mull over the odd things John's laugh—and eyes, and face and just generally John—did to him. He bit his bottom lip with his dainty little teeth to stop himself from stuttering out any more embarrassing nonsense. He chomped at it and then let the lip escape slowly from the confines of his teeth. If John's expression was in equal parts enthralled and hungry as he watched this display, if his breath came a little faster than it had been, if it came close to being classified as a pant, Sherlock wasn't to know. He was too busy trying not to blush.

John shook himself. ‘Sorry, I’m so sorry. That was… that was presumptuous of me.’ he nodded once and paused a moment, utterly serious.

Sherlock swallowed.

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ John asked with a cheeky grin on his face.

Sherlock blushed.

A sudden vibration on the table made them both jump. Sherlock snatched at his phone and let out a breath he’d been holding for, he wasn’t sure how long. Lestrade. Probably needed help retrieving a child's balloon.

‘Got a case?’ John's eyes shone. He was practically bouncing in his seat.

Sherlock swiped open the text. Small child’s balloon it was not. A headless, limbless corpse. In a barrel. Recently killed but encased in cement that had been poured fifty years ago.

Sherlock’s heart (which didn’t exist) did a happy little dance, which was worryingly similar to the feeling John’s giggle elicited. Sherlock filed this away under Very Important Things To Be Investigated Further.

He dragged his index finger back and forth over his lip as he weighed up asking John to accompany him on this case. Upon focussing back, he noticed John quickly shift from looking as though he were preparing to leap bodily across the table in a ravenous fit to awkwardly looking down at his plate... then over at the crayfish drooped at the bottom of their tank... then up at the ceiling... then, well, anywhere other than Sherlock.

Sherlock took a deep breath, ‘You’re an army doctor. I expect you’re rather good.’

John’s eyes snapped back to Sherlock. ’Very good. More than good. Excellent in fact.’ He leaned over the table.

Sherlock nodded. ’You’ve seen a lot of injuries, I suppose. Violent deaths. Probably a fair bit of trouble?’

‘More than you can imagine. Far too much for any sane person.’ John was nigh on panting again.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at this. ‘Oh, I can imagine quite a bit, and I’m far from sane.’ He grinned like a starving shark and all but leapt from his chair, grabbing his coat from the back of it. ‘Come along then, doctor. We’ve got a case to solve.’


End file.
